Yes, I failed English 101. And I remember when it happened, I felt like I had been wrong about myself. I felt like the little voice inside was nothing but a liar, a ridiculously naive sub-conscious destined to lead me into a life of disappointment because I was obviously meant to be a teacher, which is what I changed my major to after failing English. But someone gave me a journal as a gift, and written along the bottom of each page were quotes from famous writers. I remember one saying, “All great writers fail English 101.” That quote alone made me change my major back.

This quote (below), by Ray Bradbury I just found last night. It’s along the same lines, but Mr. Bradbury, (whom I’ve seen speak and let me tell you, dude goes hard) goes even further. For all my college writers:

You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do—and they don’t. They have prejudices. They may like Henry James, but what if you don’t want to write like Henry James? They may like John Irving, for instance, who’s the bore of all time. A lot of the people whose work they’ve taught in the schools for the last thirty years, I can’t understand why people read them and why they are taught. – Ray Bradbury

Professors teach you to write like them, not to write like you. Don’t EVER forget that.

I find it so interesting that when you “randomly” become a catalyst for revolution, in the midst of that change you often end up sacrificing your life. Sometimes the revolution comes from your death. Other times your death comes from that revolution. Unfortunately for Rodney King, I think the beating broke his body, and the riot broke his heart, and that for twenty years he lived, not a quite a life, but a delayed death.

Can’t we all just get along…isn’t so funny now.

Definitely rest in peace, brother. You’ve earned it.

 

So…I know I haven’t really been on this thing in a while. It’s been over a month, actually. And for anyone who cares…I apologize. I apologize to you, and to myself. I started this blog as a way for me to be loose, and write freely about whatever might be on my mind — therapy, if you will. But lately, my dreams have been eating up every minute of my time and every ounce of my energy. I’ve wanted to be a writer for most of my life. And now that my dreams are coming true, I have no regrets, but I recognize now more than ever the amount of sacrifice it takes to do it. At least…to be a writer for a living.

But with being a writer, and having work to create (though it is my own work, and what I WANT to do) comes the challenge of putting a certain level of pressure on myself to produce literature at the highest level. I believe in excellence. But excellence can only be achieved through focus. And focus can only come through prioritizing. And for the last month, while I was editing this book, blogging wasn’t a priority. Well, actually it was, but my brain didn’t think so.

Nonetheless, I have so much to share, and am slowly climbing out of my hole (missed my father’s birthday and everything) to reconnect with the world, as I continue on this journey in search of success, but more importantly, balance.

Bear with me. And…keep checking this damn blog.

 

Whenever I ask an artist, or entrepreneur what they’re up to, the stock response is, “On my grind,” or, “Grinding hard, man.” And, yes, I too am a “grinder,” but when I looked up the actual definition(s) for grind, I was faced with a dilemma — what kind of “grind” am I on?

The definitions of the verb, grind:

1. grind: v, reduce something to small particles or powder by crushing it.

2. grind: v, rub, or cause to rub together gratingly.

3. grind: v, move noisily and laboriously, especially against a countering force.

4. grind: v, rotate the hips.

I’m going with number three.

And sometimes number four.

(Hey, what can I say.)

DEFINITELY not number one.

Those of you who know me, know that I have a healthy obsession with Bob Marley. From my father playing Babylon By Bus while driving me to elementary school, to me discovering the Kaya LP in the basement, and spinning it on the record player, to my best friend Aaron’s father letting me borrow the Exodus CD, to my cousin Eric expanding my knowledge past the A-sides and hits, to my homeboy Thomas and I talking about him in college as if Bob Marley was a major.  So when it comes to the late legend, needless to say, I know a lot. At least I thought I did.

The new documentary, Marley, shed some light on tons of things I had no clue about. I wont really go into any of it here, because I don’t want to undercut anyone’s movie-going experience. But EVERYONE needs to go see it. In the theater, when I went, there were tons of old white people, young asians, a few Rastas, some young black kids, men, women, boys, girls, everybody. Bob was for the people. ALL the people.

Anyway…the point of this post is to explain what I learned from the movie…well, really, from his life. And what that is, is that fearlessness is paramount, not just when it comes to being successful, but when it comes to actualizing and fulfilling your purpose. You have to know you know you know you know. And on top of that, discipline has to be a key element in your life. A cornerstone of your personality. Excellence has to be a habit, and if you can make that the case, fear becomes even more absurd.

Why fear the house will fall, when you’ve taken the time to place each brick carefully?

GO SEE THE MOVIE, GO SEE THE MOVIE, GO SEE THE MOVIE. The music, as awesome as it is, was only an extension of his mind, and his heart. But his life and mission should be dissected for gems, to once more show us the power of God, and the power of humanity.

(Preaching to myself.)

Check out the trailer, here.

Yesterday I called my mother because…well, she’s my mother, and I love her. So anyway, I called and we had our usual check-in, check-up, right before one of us (her) checks out and goes to bed. In the middle of talking about her locking her keys in her car, she digressed into telling me that she has given away just about all my old clothes. Jeans, tees, hats, suits, sweaters, and shoes. Well, not all the shoes. She saved one pair. An old pair of Chuck Taylor’s that I wore all through college. The shoes are literally unwearable, almost as if my feet were sulfuric bombs that exploded in the flimsy canvas sneakers, turning them into mush. They definitely smelled like it…make a dump smell like a daisy.

Anyway, my mom explained that these shoes she refused to throw away, because she honestly feels that someday, someone will want to pay a “pretty penny” for them, when I’m famous.

Seriously.

Though thoughts of fame and admiration float around my head occasionally (just being honest), I’m more tickled by my mother’s faith and almost childlike naïveté, to believe my worn out sneakers could someday be a treasure to a person who considered themselves…”a fan.” I mean, I’d buy Langston Hughes’s hard-bottoms for a small fortune. I’d give an arm for one I Baldwin’s neckties. But my old converses? Me?

Imagine that. Better yet, let me imagine it.

My man Matt Pryor said it best in this song. This is definitely how I’ve been feeling lately…”’cause they can go to hell.”

All the hearts are breaking over this

A testament to targets that we missed

If the highest mountain is a personal pursuit

I wish the best to you

It’s better to be last than be too late

Stronger to have fallen and recovered from mistakes

Some days I stumble when these words, they have no weight

Then I get up again

Don’t let the bastards get you down
Don’t let the bastards get you down
They can go to hell

And I can disappoint or disappear

Of this thought I’m painfully aware

Sometimes a lack of options is the drive that keeps me here

That’s no way to be

Don’t let the bastards get you down
Don’t let the bastards get you down
Cause they can go to hell

So, check out these images, below. They are all peppered throughout the latest issue of New Yorker Magazine, randomly. No, there is NO Trayvon Martin story in the issue. As a matter of fact, there isn’t even an article that comes close to talking about him. Instead, what they did was randomly place “hoodied” people in the middle of stories about gas and government, baseball, America’s obsession with cowboys and Indians, and how attractive the existential writer, Albert Camus was.

Brilliant.

I’ve been researching this bike for over a year now, ad I finally decided to pull the trigger and get one!

Introducing…the Brompton.
The perks:

1.) My bike will never be stolen because it can fold up and come with me inside places.

2.) If it starts raining, I can always fold it up and jump on the train or in a cab.

3.) I can take it everywhere I travel.

4.) Because of the design, it rides EXACTLY like a regular bike.

Get hip.